‘No city invites the heart to come to life as San Francisco does.’
—William Saroyan

 

 

 

 

 

ON THE SUMMER MORNING your plane arrives in San Francisco, you’ve already been wondering if everything you’ve heard about the city is true. Is it really the most beautiful city in the United States? The most cosmopolitan, like a European city? Well, you’re here for a meeting and have come two days early, just to find out. So, after your cab has deposited you at a downtown hotel on what looks to be a cool, cloudy day and you’ve checked in, you set out to see for yourself, city map in hand. You’ll start with the Union Square area downtown, then see if you can find Chinatown to get a bite to eat, and perhaps go to North Beach on one those cable cars that seem to be symbolic of the city. You’ve heard that the Italian cafés in North Beach not only have good coffee, they’re excellent for “people watching,” too. You carry a jacket—just in case.

And then as you start your walk, the wind hits you full force. Unrelenting, damp. It’s whipping along the canyons of tall office buildings as you forge your way through the Financial District up to Union Square. You can’t see the tops of the buildings for the fog. So, you’ve got your jacket on, zipped up, and are glad that you read somewhere that only uninformed tourists wear shorts and sandals in “summery” San Francisco. People talk about the lovely climate here. Surely, they can’t mean this.

You cut through the Crocker Galleria, three levels of open balconies with shops and cafés that look interesting, and you make a mental note to come back. And then ahead you see Union Square, up some steps. A group of colorfully-dressed Latin American musicians are playing their pipes, creating a lively air. One of the musicians nods at you as you pass by on your way up. And suddenly you are charmed. The old plaza—no matter how modernly restored—is captivating, overlooking its bustling surroundings. There’s a human scale, the buildings are low, and there aren’t any fogbound skyscrapers here. You can imagine what it must have looked like a century ago. Down the steps again, you circle the square to browse the windows of Saks, Tiffany, Nieman Marcus, and Macy’s, and you even wander in to look at the lobby of the famous Saint Francis hotel. The cable car is clanging by as you come out, and people even seem to be hanging off the sides. Watching as it works its way up a steep hill, you decide that yes, this isn’t to be missed.

Chinatown is marked on the map, so you turn on Grant Avenue, glancing right and left, seeing that this downtown area offers a lot but is not overwhelming. You look up, straight ahead. And there it is: the Chinatown Gate! Spanning Grant Avenue where it narrows, it’s a tall welcoming entrance with a tiled roof like a pagoda, painted red and green, the Chinese colors of prosperity. So here you are, possibly being beckoned into another world. You quicken your steps, not minding the upward incline. At first there are gift shops to the right and left: the windows show jade and gold, silks, artworks, and Chinese tourist kitsch, of course. But buying souvenirs for the family is for another day, so you walk on. It’s not so cold now, and a bright blue sky is showing through in patches as the fog is beginning to lift. In fact, you’re almost ready to take your jacket off.

And then the restaurants appear, their wafting aromas trying to lure you in. “Eat where the Chinese do,” your boss advised, so you look in. But there are Asians in all of them, so you keep on. You turn up steep Washington Street and see that the signs are all in Chinese! Now on Stockton it doesn’t seem like America any longer. Ancient-looking women with their shopping bags are shouting in Chinese to the fruit vendors, gesturing at piles of vegetables, the likes of which you’ve never seen before. The descriptions are in Chinese but the prices are not, and they are incredibly cheap. The fish markets, open to the sidewalk, also have their lines, if this pell-mell assortment of people can be called a line. Buckets of fish line the floor below those above that are in cases or on ice. Some of the women in mismatched clothes and black cloth sandals—they could even be great-grandmothers—have fabric slings tied firmly across their chests, with a baby snuggled, almost swaddled, behind.

Now you notice there are so many little eateries you don’t think you could make a choice. So, you just go into the next. There are cooked, crispy ducks hanging in the windows, and a huge vat of what must be soup is bubbling on a burner, as well. And it’s clear that no one is speaking English, not one word.

The waiter zipping by points to a large round table where five businessmen in suits are talking in Chinese while eating their lunch, chopsticks in one hand, rice bowl in the other. They don’t look up as you take the remaining seat. There’s a pitcher of water on the table, and at your place a handwritten menu that, thank heavens, has English translations under the listings in Chinese. There are also a yellow plastic glass, chopsticks, and a paper napkin, but no fork. You look to see what the men are eating. Are those chicken feet? And what is that meat in brownish sauce? The guy next to you is shoveling it in, so it must be good. You’ve heard about authentic Chinese food in San Francisco. It looks like you’ve come to the right place.

So when the waiter halts just briefly in front of you, although you had been thinking of that delicious-looking duck, you point to what your neighbor is having. And instead of tea, which all the others are drinking, you take a chance and order a Diet Coke. It may be China, but it’s America, too, is it not? And in almost the blink of an eye, an enormous meal is thrust in front of you—first soup and then the main course with rice, along with the Coke. The man next to you gives you a quick nod of approval, but then looks down to his rice bowl once again. You don’t know exactly how to describe your meal—“beef and vegetables” doesn’t do it justice—but you’d come back for it again, any day. Being here reminds you that there’s a celebrated Asian Art Museum, a must for tomorrow, the last free day before your meeting begins. Finally, when the bill is set before you, you can’t read it, for it’s scrawled in Chinese, but since it’s only US$ 6.50 including the Coke, you couldn’t care less. On the way out you give your own nod of approval at two other tourists who have come in and are now looking around, wondering what to order. That’s all.

And when you’re back on the sidewalk, contentedly replete, something is different. You realize that the entire sky is clear and the air is warm. In fact, the sky is of a blue so startling it almost takes your breath away. The street seems to sparkle as you walk up to Mason Street to wait for the cable car. You realize as you climb, that you’ve walked just about across the whole downtown, and that San Francisco is a “walking city,” despite the hills you’ve climbed and see just ahead. You don’t wait long, but when the cable car arrives, it’s full, or so you think. Yet people adjust themselves to make a space for you, so you jump on, finding a pole to hold on to to steady yourself. The gripman rings his bell, and off you go.

North Beach is too close, so you ride until the end of the line, only a few streets from the famous Fisherman’s Wharf. The meeting organizers have planned for a group dinner out here one night, so instead of stopping here, you stroll along the promenade, noticing a brightly colored antique-looking trolley car discharging passengers for their own afternoon at the Wharf. But you’re going to Pier 39 where you’ve heard that there are actually sea lions living right in the city, and darned if it isn’t true! Only a few today, but they’re basking and barking and lounging on their piers, and an official sign cautions people against bothering them in any way. Along with everyone else, you take a picture or two. Then, before doing anything else, you get a cup of coffee and walk around to the end of Pier 39.

And there at the end is the most incredible panorama a city could ever have! Unbelievable! The glistening bay, the Golden Gate itself, mountains across the water, and the glorious unending sky, still that piercing blue, the air now quite warm. You lean against the rail, sip your coffee, never wanting to move, almost overawed. Finally, you whisk past the tourist shops, you glide along the moving walkway of the Aquarium, and then you are out once again onto the street. You’re thinking tiredly of the long walk back to your hotel, and perhaps of a nap.

But San Francisco accommodates, and there approaching the corner is one of those colorful trolley cars, and you—along with several others—flag it down, somewhat relieved to catch the ride. The tracks run along the Embarcadero, the broad boulevard that parallels the bay, and with stately palms guiding the way, you’re soon back downtown; And tight asleep on a comfortable bed only a few minutes after that. A fresh sea breeze, a healthy walk, and a delicious lunch are all it took.

Later, in the hotel lobby you run into a colleague also arriving for the meeting, so you agree to spend the evening together. Outside, it’s still quite balmy, and the breeze has died down. What will it be? North Beach and an Italian evening, or a walk down Market Street to the Ferry Building? No, you agree to meet there early in the morning to take in the Farmers Market and then the ferry, perhaps to visit Sausalito. And later, the Asian Art Museum for you and the Museum of Modern Art for your friend. There’s clearly too much to do, and too little time. You’ve both got your jackets at the ready, and you decide to take the cable car from its starting point at Market Street and get to North Beach.

For the first few streets, it’s flat, but as the car reaches Kearny Street it gets steep, and then steeper and steeper yet. And the car is climbing and everyone is smiling. You pass Grant Avenue where you had walked earlier in the day, and finally you get off at Powell, where your friend hails another bell-clanging cable car that is coming up the hill. This one is heading north, and as the other chugged up, this one—after a few minutes—glides down, and then down some more. The cable cars are a National Landmark, and you can see why.

When you are once again on foot, at Saint Francis Square, you stroll around and look at the works at an art fair there. You chat with a photographer, thinking to buy his photo of the sea lions, but you don’t, for you want to see how your own come out. And then you walk south on Columbus, past the famous coffee houses and perhaps as many Italian restaurants as there were Chinese earlier in the day. Your friend has heard of a place that specializes in garlic, the Stinking Rose. That suits you just fine, and the place turns out to be as good as advertised. An hour or so later, when you come out (with several business cards in your pocket to give to friends back home), it’s cooling off and you put your jacket back on. Suddenly you remember something else you once heard about San Francisco, that it does have four seasons, but they all just happen in one day! You tell your friend, and you both nod in agreement and laugh.

Strolling back to the hotel, you look at the streets, into the restaurant windows, wishing there were more time. And then you hear a low blast of noise. It’s a real foghorn, clearly announcing the fog starting to come back in. But now you understand and can’t wait for that afternoon warm blue sky. And, just before you end this first day, you decide to have a drink at the top of your hotel whose lounge boasts of a spectacular view of San Francisco and the bay. The lights of the city are twinkling below the fog that is now drifting in, and you and your friend sit rather quietly with your glasses in front of you—a California Cabernet that the waiter has recommended. You look out at the lights, and you mull over what you’ve seen on this first day, and whether San Francisco lives up to its reputation for charm.

And if this first day at the city had been yours, what would you conclude?